


Sehnsucht

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: Rounds of Kink [12]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Choking, Community: rounds_of_kink, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 03, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24614398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: In which Will, unable to sleep, muses on what it would feel like to wrap his hands around Hannibal’s throat.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Rounds of Kink [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/786411
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30
Collections: 36 - Round Thirty-Six of Rounds of Kink





	Sehnsucht

**Author's Note:**

> written for round 36 of [Rounds of Kink! ](https://rounds-of-kink.livejournal.com/) the prompt I had was "can't stop my heart, asphyxiation (asphyxiophilia; autoerotic asphyxiation; scarfing; choking; breath play), angst". I had a bit of a hard time with this prompt so hopefully the connection is clear. 
> 
> Sehnsucht is a German word that roughly translates to longing. The [Wikipedia page](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sehnsucht) on it is really interesting. I first heard of the word from the Rammstein [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcZHxomhwzg) and album by the same name, so credit where credit is due!

Sometimes, in the dead of the night, when his eyes refuse to remain closed and the only thing he can hear is the ocean lapping at the shore, Will thinks about wrapping his hands around Hannibal’s throat. 

He’s not sure where the thought comes from or why it only comes under the cover of darkness. If he put some serious thought into it, dedicated a few hours to combing through the depths of his mind, he could possibly find some kind of commonality or trigger that he could label a contributing factor. If he was still on speaking terms with Alana or Bedelia, they could probably do it in half the time or, at the very least, they could come up with something that sounded plausible, even if it wasn’t wholly accurate. 

But reaching out to Alana is not an option, not if he wants her to remain alive for longer than a few days, and Bedelia isn’t exactly in a place to speak about anything, let alone the depths of his mind. 

Which only leaves himself and, frankly, he’s done enough self-exploration for two lifetimes. 

So he doesn’t try to come up with an explanation. He just thinks. 

Moving slowly, he turns his head, wincing slightly as one of his many old injuries makes itself known in the back of his neck. On the other side of their wide bed, Hannibal is fast asleep. Or, at least, he appears to be – his breathing is slow and steady, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It could be another one of his acts, acts that he still falls back into from time to time, even though there’s only Will to practice them on, and at this point, Will considers himself to almost be an expert at knowing when Hannibal is putting on one of his masks and when he’s actually being himself. 

(Or, rather, when he’s wearing the mask that most closely resembles himself, which is good enough for Will). 

Regardless of whether he’s sleeping or pretending, his eyes are closed, and he’s resting on his back, bare-chested, a light blanket draped across his ribs. One arm is tucked underneath his pillow, while the other is resting loosely at his side, stretched out towards Will. His head is tilted towards one side, and the length of his throat is completely exposed, Adam’s apple jutting towards the ceiling. 

Will wants to feel the hard ridge of it pressing into his palms. 

It would be easy enough to initiate. He never sleeps as well as Hannibal; while he doesn’t dream quite as vividly as he used to, doesn’t wake up drenched in sweat with his nightmares lingering in his peripheral vision, it’s still rare that he sleeps through the night. Usually, he sleeps in restless fits and spurts, preceded by hours spent cataloguing his various injuries and their associated pains, trying to bore his mind into unconsciousness. Hannibal wouldn’t be alarmed by Will rolling over onto his side to face him. He might not even stir. 

The next part is where things might get complicated. 

If Will moved quickly, if he lashed forward and wrapped his fingers tight around Hannibal’s neck, the element of surprise would be on his side. Alternatively, he could bide his time. He could move a few inches at a time, work his way across the gulf between them, until Hannibal’s fingertips are brushing against him. He could lift his hand slowly, rest it on Hannibal’s stomach or his chest, get him accustomed to the presence of it, before he made his move. 

Whichever method he chooses, his main interest is in how Hannibal would react. Would he blindly lash out, like a serpent backed into a corner? Would he rely on pure instinct to dig his own fingers into Will’s flesh with practiced efficiency, sever his breathing in one fluid motion before Will could even get a proper grip? 

Or would he open his eyes and calmly stare up at Will in the dark? Would he remain motionless, hands at his sides, waiting to see what happens next? Would he willingly give Will control over the situation, if only to better serve his own amusement? 

Both possibilities are equally plausible. It would depend almost exclusively on the intricate workings of Hannibal’s mind, workings that Will still doesn’t entirely understand, although he likes to lie and tell himself that he does. 

If Hannibal gave him permission to roam free, he could savor the sensations. He could relish in the hard press of cartilage into the palm of his hand, feel it dragging over his scarred and calloused skin. He could appreciate the ticking of Hannibal’s pulse underneath his fingertips, feel it slow (but probably not stutter – unless he held his hands there for long enough to make Hannibal’s heart stop, he doubts Hannibal would allow him the privilege of feeling his heart out of control). He could keep his ears trained for any sounds Hannibal might make, involuntary gasps and sighs. Maybe, if he leaned in close, he would be able to observe Hannibal’s eyes, see if they fluttered shut or expand. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s held Hannibal’s life in his hands, but something about this particular context, about the intimacy of it, the _power_ , makes his own heart pound. His imagination is so visceral that he can almost _feel_ it, all of it, even though the only movement he’s made is to glance over at Hannibal’s sleeping form. 

With a shuddering exhale, he turns his gaze away and rolls onto his side, so that his back is to Hannibal. In response, Hannibal stirs briefly, long enough to shift over and place his fingertips between Will’s shoulder blades, before he goes still again. That gentle touch burns into Will’s skin as he stares out their open window, the deep blue of the moonless night sky visible between their translucent curtains.

As much as he’s curious about Hannibal’s reaction, he’s more curious about his own. It’s an avenue he has only barely dared to explore, because going down that particular dimly lit path would bring him one step closer to bringing the longing into actual existence. But even as he closes his eyes, hoping that the sound of the waves will drag him into sleep, he finds himself treading down that path anyways. 

If Hannibal fought back, it’s entirely possible that Will wouldn’t make it out alive, no matter how hard he tried. If he _did_ survive, it would only be because Hannibal allowed him to, an allowance that he could easily rescind at any given moment. 

(Which, to be fair, is essentially the system they’ve been operating under for nearly a year now. The knowledge that their stalemate could come to an end at any given moment hangs over them like the sword of Damocles, ready to split them apart on a whim.) 

But what if Hannibal remained still? What if he let Will do what he pleased? 

He doesn’t know what would happen. Maybe, after a few moments of watching Hannibal’s reactions, he’d release his grip. Maybe it would ignite something in his stomach, a fire that could only be quenched by sex. 

Or maybe he wouldn’t let go. Maybe he would hold on. Maybe his mind, filled with memories of all the times Hannibal has tried to kill him, has tried to _ruin_ him, filled with the certainty that at some point Hannibal will try again, will not allow him to let go.

As much as he hates to allow his emotions to dictate his actions, it’s all too possible that, once he has Hannibal’s life in his hands, he won’t be able to stop his heart, pierced as it is with the reminders of all Hannibal has taken away from him, at the cost of freeing him, from taking over. 

The simple truth is that he doesn’t know what will happen. He doesn’t know what side of him will win out. Logic or emotions? Curiosity or vengeance? Longing or self-preservation? 

There are no definitive answers.

The only way he’ll know is if he does it. 

Maybe, he thinks, grateful to finally feel unconsciousness tug at his brain, one day, he’ll do just that.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
